Tally Marks
by carolinelea
Summary: "She knew he wouldn't answer. Even though it was her eleventh call, he wouldn't answer, and she knew why, deep inside. It was the only reason he would leave." / Lucy makes a drastic decision. Lyatt romance; Garcy friendship. An imagining for the rest of the season, starting canon-compliant and veering into AU. Song-inspired.


_This begins right after the Salem Witch Hunt (canon-compliant) and goes into my non-canon-compliant imaginings for the end of the story. Inspired by the song "Tally Marks," by the band Joseph, to which I highly recommend listening while you read. Hope you enjoy._

* * *

 _flashes of your empty room  
_ _it all adds up like the tally marks you drew_

She knew he wouldn't answer. Even though it was her eleventh call, he wouldn't answer, and she knew why, deep inside. _  
_

It was the only reason he would leave. Nothing else in the world would make him abandon the mission, abandon the team.

 _Abandon me_ , she thought, and hit re-dial again, before she could change her mind.

As it went to voicemail for the twelfth time, she laid back on his bed and looked at the small hash marks he had made on the wall next to his pillow with a piece of chalk.

" _Tally marks?" she asked curiously, dragging her fingers across his chest as they lay intertwined on his cot. Her third stolen Hollywood outfit lay carelessly on the floor beneath them. He turned his head sleepily and saw what she meant._

" _Oh, uh...old habit, he replied. "Way to keep track of how long you've been somewhere. Like if you've been captured and you don't have access to a clock or calendar."_

" _And who's keeping you captive now, Master Sergeant?" she asked playfully. He chuckled and rolled over her, pinning her (amid absolutely zero of her own protests) to the squeaky frame._

" _I think you've got that backwards, ma'am," he said, nipping at her mouth._

* * *

 _another touch, another meaningless move  
_ _is that really all you've got? show me different_

It would be over-exaggerating to say that the pain in her arm disappeared when she saw Wyatt waiting at the bottom of the ladder, but it wasn't far from the truth.

He stood there, eyes wide and worried and honestly, how did he even _do_ that? It was like they inflated and took over his whole damn face.

But Lucy could tell he was worried about more than just her arm - even from here, she could pick out a strange new hesitance in them, and it drew her own eyes to the only other unfamiliar presence in the landing bay.

Jessica.

Lucy had never looked very closely at the picture Wyatt kept of the two of them in his wallet, but she had seen enough to know that she was blonde and pretty. The woman who watched her now, shock written in all the angles of her body, was taller than she'd expected. She had a hard-nosed, take-no-shit attitude about her that was so like Wyatt that it made Lucy's stomach drop a little.

Wyatt and Jessica were an evenly matched pair - not opposites. Two people who should be able to build a strong, real marriage.

Not like the fire and wet blanket she now recognized between Wyatt and herself.

When he took a step upward to her, guilt and regret making him move a bit faster than he might normally, she was still grateful. She was shaky from blood loss and wasn't sure she could make it down the ladder in her heavy skirts without help.

But then she felt the light pressure of Flynn's hand on her arm and looked down to see that Wyatt had drawn back. Flynn carefully guided her down and she knew the two of them had to be glaring daggers at one another behind her back.

As Lucy walked by Jessica, she gave her a small, awkward smile. When their eyes met, Lucy's stomach dropped another few inches.

They looked just like her own.

* * *

 _what you've done cannot be undone  
_ _but you'll wake up to another sun_

"What happened?"

Lucy sighed and opened her eyes. Damn. He could tell she wasn't sleeping.

"Didn't you hear the briefing?"

He frowned and sat down next to the med bay cot, where she was holed up for the night with her cocktail of antibiotic fluids.

"Yeah, from Flynn's mouth to Satan's ears," he retorted, but there was no heat in it.

Lucy stared at him. His eyes were bloodshot and a little puffy. She sighed again.

"Judge Hathorne tried to keep me from setting Abi Franklin free. He came at me with a knife."

"Right, after you and Rufus were captured and tied up. Because Flynn turned tail."

"Flynn shot Hathorne," she said shortly. "Killed him so he couldn't try again."

"If he hadn't left -" began Wyatt, but Lucy interrupted him.

"If he hadn't left to go find a gun, me and Rufus would both be dead, Wyatt," she said acidly. "And just who do you think you are, criticizing someone for leaving?"

Silence fell between them. Wyatt folded his arms and looked at the floor. He opened his mouth and started to form the words of an apology, but she spoke over him.

"Don't say you're sorry for going. I know you had to go. I just..." she trailed off, taking deep breaths to keep from crying. "I just don't understand why you couldn't stop for a damn second and show me the text before you left. You at least gave me that right when you decided to steal the Lifeboat, and we weren't even..."

He looked up then, and gave her a sad, watery smile.

"Would you believe me if I told you it was because I'm a stupid, reckless hothead?"

She made a sound somewhere between a sniff and a laugh, wiping her own eyes.

"Yeah," she said, putting a hand on his own. "Believe it or not, I would."

* * *

 _I've got a sense about you  
_ _under your hood, there's a man that I knew  
_ _his eyes are fire and his hands are true  
_ _where is he? where are you?_

"Well, this has been a sufficiently terrifying day," said Jessica, standing up from the table and smoothing her hands over her hair. "I'm gonna head out."

Everyone murmured quiet good nights to her as she and Wyatt turned to leave. Lucy watched them go, trying not to wonder if they were staying here or going back to Jessica's place.

Or if they were sleeping together again.

Perhaps she watched and wondered a little too avidly, for in the next moment, Flynn was tapping her on the arm.

"What?" she said blankly.

"Our turn for dishes," he reminded her.

"Oh." She looked around and realized they were the only two left in the room.

He sighed. "I've got it. You shouldn't move that arm too much."

"No, that's okay, I can -"

"Sit," he ordered calmly, his hands full of plates.

She obeyed, but watched him as he worked, reflecting on how strange it was to see him do anything that wasn't firing a gun or hitting someone. Domestic was weird on Flynn.

"Penny for your thoughts," he called over his shoulder.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Why?"

He chuckled mirthlessly and turned to face her, dish towel thrown over one shoulder.

"Because you have a face like glass and I'm certain that the thoughts behind it are highly entertaining."

Lucy scoffed at that.

"I do not have -"

"Then why are you sitting there wondering if I'm about to lose my temper and smash these plates against a wall?"

She closed her mouth. He smirked.

"I don't like to be violent," said Flynn. "But pacifism is the luxury of the ignorant."

Lucy groaned and sat back in her chair.

"There are so many things wrong with that statement."

"Maybe," he said, non-comittally.

A few more minutes of watery, clinking sounds followed this exchange until Lucy had sufficiently worked up her nerve.

"Will you teach me to shoot?"

The clinking sounds stopped and he turned around, a curious look on his face.

"Why?"

She pursed her lips.

"Why not?"

Flynn's face was perfectly non-plussed. He considered for a moment and then said: "Yes. You get me access to some guns and a range and I'll teach you to shoot."

Lucy nodded and he turned back to the sink, pulling the plug so that the soapy water drained away.

"Aren't you afraid to be alone with me and a loaded gun?" he asked, not facing her.

"No," she said, honestly. "I'm afraid of needing to use a gun and not being able to."

He nodded, walking past her with two beers. He sat down on the couch and held one out to her. She accepted it as she went to sit down next to him.

"Lesson one," he said, turning on the TV to something mindless. "Fear isn't real."

She stared at him.

"Did you overhear Houdini tell me that at the World's Fair?"

He looked over at her in surprise, and then laughed.

"No. You wrote it to me on the first page of the journal. Guess now I know why."

* * *

 _noble and staggering  
_ _I don't need something perfect_

"Screw you, Wyatt Logan, and screw this hellhole," fumed Jessica. She stalked past where Lucy and Flynn were sitting at the table.

"Jess, wait," called Wyatt, and he strode past them, too, trying to catch up with her.

"Trouble in paradise?" quipped Flynn, and Lucy shot him a disgusted look.

"Lay off," she said, and he held his hands up in mock-surrender.

"Look, I'm just saying that your reasoning for doing this might not be completely sound," he said.

"I know what I'm doing."

"Well, that's good, because I sure as hell don't," said Flynn. "You're forgetting that I've done this more than you. You start fucking around with time - it tends to do exactly what you don't want it to do."

"It'll work," she said stubbornly. He sighed.

"Well, the only people you'll have to convince will be in the Lifeboat with you," he said. "I won't know any different, either way."

At this, Lucy paused. She swallowed, but took his hand. He jumped a little, looking uncomfortable, but allowed it.

"I'm going to get Iris and Lorena back for you, Garcia," she intoned. "I promise you. I intend to make good on that or die trying."

He took in a deep breath and nodded. She could see the tiniest spark of hope in his face.

"I put them under your mattress," he said lowly.

"And you're absolutely sure they won't permanently injure," she said, a little doubtfully.

"As much as I'd like to teach Logan a lesson," he said, and Lucy scowled at him. "Yes. I'm certain."

* * *

 _hear me now: I could be your undoing  
_ _your pretty thing and  
_ _the friction that sparks your fire_

"You're insane," said Wyatt.

"No way," said Rufus.

"Absolutely not," said Jiya.

Lucy sighed and looked at the ceiling of the Lifeboat.

"We don't have time to argue about this," she said to it, carefully visually tracing the grates and gears there. If she met their eyes – especially Wyatt's – she wouldn't have the nerve to stick to the plan.

"Well, frankly, I don't give a damn what you think we do or do not have time for," Wyatt growled at her. "That's crazy and we're not leaving you here."

"It's the only way and you know it," replied Lucy carefully. She prayed he couldn't hear how loudly her heart was pounding. _Don't look at him. Dammit, Lucy – don't look at him._

Strange how much her inner voice sounded like Flynn.

"No," said Wyatt flatly. "Rufus, get us out of here before she has another bright idea."

Rufus turned away, shaking his head and beginning the takeoff sequence, and Wyatt leaned over her, angrily pulling at her harness straps.

She didn't even have to trick him or lean forward to get close. It was almost too easy.

Lucy plunged the hypodermic needle into Wyatt's leg.

"What –"

His blue eyes widened in shock, realization - then betrayal. He began to fall backwards into his jump seat, mouth agape, breathing hard.

Lucy didn't hesitate. She had already pulled the other plunger out of her pocket and jabbed it into Rufus's neck before he had even had the chance to fully turn and look at Wyatt. He slumped forward over the control panel, and Jiya, who was already buckled in, cried out and tried to reach for him.

Lucy gritted her teeth as she opened Wyatt's coat and pulled out his handgun. She released the safety and leveled it at Jiya.

"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice shook, but her hands were steady as she hit the button to open the hatch. "They're okay. Just unconscious."

Wyatt, however, _was_ still conscious. Flynn had told her the drug should knock him out, as it had Rufus, but he was fighting it, maybe thanks to his training – his eyes were still half-open, staring at her.

"Lucy," Jiya whispered. "Don't."

"Take them home," said Lucy to Jiya.

"Not without you," said Jiya, her eyes brimming with moisture.

Lucy swallowed.

"Please - please just take them home, Jiya," she begged, but Jiya squared her shoulders.

"No. Lucy, we can figure out another way when we get home. Just put the gun down."

Lucy shook her head.

"No."

"I know you're not going to shoot me," said Jiya. Her eyes were like burning coals. "You would never hurt me. Or them."

Now, Lucy's hands trembled. She tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs felt like they were being squeezed by iron bands, so she settled for three quick, shallow ones.

And then she pointed the gun at her own head.

The sound Wyatt made as she did it was terrible. Lucy closed her eyes momentarily, forcing herself not to look at him.

"I'm doing this," she said in a dead, emotionless tone. "Either you take them home and leave me here so I can finish Rittenhouse, or I kill myself now and hope that will be enough to get rid of them in the future."

Jiya stared at her, horrified.

"You don't know what will happen if you do this, Lucy," she said. "You could - you could disappear completely. And even if you don't disappear, you could be stuck in the past forever."

The barrel was cold against Lucy's temple.

"I know," she whispered. "I know what I'm doing. I know what could happen. You just have to let me do this."

"We can figure out another way!" Jiya shouted, getting frustrated, but Lucy interrupted her.

"No. Listen to me," she demanded. She moved her finger to the trigger and Jiya immediately fell silent, frozen with fear.

"I won't let any of you do this," said Lucy. "It _has_ to be me. You have Rufus. Wyatt will - Jessica will never have died. Denise will have her family; Mason, his work. And if you leave me here to fix this, Flynn's family will be alive. All of your lives will go back to how they should be without Rittenhouse in them -"

"But no one but us will remember you," said Jiya, crying. Lucy shrugged one shoulder halfheartedly.

"That's okay," she said in a voice that did nothing to convince anyone. "You guys are the only ones left in my life, and you'll have each other. Everyone else I care about is gone. My work - my life - all of it shouldn't exist. _I_ shouldn't exist. And Rittenhouse is in my DNA. I need to wipe all of it out - _all of it_ , including me."

"Luce," groaned Wyatt suddenly, and Lucy couldn't help it - she glanced over at him and felt nearly all of her resolve drain away.

"We," he mumbled. "We need..." he shuddered and a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. It looked like he was putting up a Herculean effort to stay awake.

"You," he finally finished. "I n-need...you."

In a flash, Lucy heard echoes of men shouting, of bullets whizzing by, striking the limestone walls of a doomed Spanish mission. Felt clammy, stubble-rough cheeks under her palms. Saw into the unreasonable, grief-stricken eyes of a soldier she - at that point - had barely known, but already cared for much too deeply. Remembered her own words; words she had tried to imprint into his brain with all her will that Texas morning.

 _"I don't want anyone else. Rufus needs you. I need you. Okay?"_

"I..." breathed Wyatt, brokenly. He was white to the lips and had given up trying to move. His eyes were pools of terrified, devoted cerulean, expressive beyond words. His hands rested limply at his sides -

And one bore his wife's wedding band.

"I love...you," he said, and Lucy saw snatches of a life she wanted desperately flash before her eyes:

 _The scratch of a lace veil on her neck._

 _A blue-eyed child on a swing, shrieking with delight._

 _The acrid scent of burning dinner in her nose and a deep chuckle in her ear, strong arms wrapped around her waist._

And then it all disappeared, and she felt her heart shatter.

Numb, she stood and secured his harness, trying not to touch him as she did it.

"I will never forgive you for this, Lucy Preston," said Jiya, through tears.

Lucy did her best to tune her out. She climbed out of the ship, putting the gun back to her head when she was on the ground.

"Go," she commanded Jiya, but kept eye contact with Wyatt. He was lying back in the seat, looking at her like she was killing him.

She thought he tried to yell "No!" as the door closed.

But the rings began to spin. She watched as time bent and curved and connected.

And then she collapsed, sobbing.

* * *

 _what you've done cannot be undone  
_ _but you'll wake up to another sun_

When the Lifeboat arrived in the present, the bunker was abandoned. Jiya couldn't move the two men, so she waited for them to wake, which only took a few hours. When Jiya told Rufus what Lucy had done, he punched a wall, breaking two fingers. Jiya attempted to splint them with some first aid supplies that appeared to be left over from the Cold War and Wyatt merely sat and stared at nothing.

They finally mustered up enough energy to emerge from the bunker and found a junkyard of broken-down cars. Between the three of them, they managed to get a rusty Ford flatbed truck running long enough to make it back to Jiya's apartment.

The spare key hidden behind the loose brick next to her door worked to unlock it, and it was apparent upon entering the apartment that Jiya and Rufus both lived there. They all changed out of their period clothes (Wyatt borrowed some of Rufus's, though the pants were a little long on him), and then they all fell onto the living room furniture, drained - Jiya and Rufus on the couch, Wyatt in the armchair - and wept together, eventually falling asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

Jiya woke before both Wyatt and Rufus. She carefully extricated herself from Rufus's arms and padded into her kitchen, where the green digital clock on the microwave read 3:52 AM. She opened the fridge and exhaled in a bit of relief. Nothing new about her domestic skills in this timeline - it was empty but for a half-drunk bottle of white wine, bottles of condiments, and Styrofoam takeout boxes. She grabbed the bottle and took a swig without pouring it into a glass, then carried it with her over to her table, where her tablet sat charging.

She tapped the email icon and found that her password was just the same. A quick scroll and scan told her that she and Rufus both still worked for Mason Industries - on some kind of project called "Tempest." She noticed an email from her mom, full of inane, familial news, and another one from HR telling her that her request for a day off - for the day before - had been approved.

Next, she searched for Agent Denise Christopher. Multiple articles about the FBI surfaced, as well as a wedding website. From what she could tell, Denise's life was much the same as it had been before she began working with Mason.

A surface-level Google search told her nothing about one Garcia Flynn. Which was normal, she supposed, for an NSA-level agent. At least there were no articles about him murdering his wife and child.

Jiya glanced over at Wyatt, who still seemed asleep in the recliner. She bit her tongue nervously, but tapped his name into the search bar, anyway.

Master Sergeant Wyatt Alan Logan. Decorated war hero. Surviving son of the late Michelle Sherwin Logan, elementary school teacher, and grandson of the late Samuel Sherwin, WWII veteran. Son of the convicted and incarcerated Wayne Logan.

But there existed no mention of the widower Wyatt Logan. Jiya frowned and opened Wyatt's Instagram page. The latest posts were fairly current, but all the photos were of his buddies, drinking beer, cliff diving, barbecues - doing typical bachelor things. But there was no Jessica. In fact, there didn't seem to be any women at all.

Now very curious, she searched for Jessica Logan. All of the results were unfamiliar.

"Try Jessica Lynn Murphy."

Jiya jumped, startled so much that she knocked over the wine bottle. Wyatt caught it and sat down next to her without comment.

"Sorry, I -" she began, but he waved her apology off.

"I get it," he said. "Try her maiden name."

Jiya hesitated for a second, looking at his drawn, pale face, but he nodded.

"It's okay," he said.

The results popped up and Jiya handed him the tablet. He took it and slowly scrolled down the page, stopping to open an Instagram account with the handle "jessilynn9."

Even without looking closely, Jiya could see Jessica's user photo. She was smiling hugely. A bridal veil was over her golden hair, and a man wearing a tuxedo and a boutonnière (who was definitely not Wyatt) was kissing her cheek.

She held her breath as Wyatt set the tablet down.

"That's my grade school buddy, Brandon," he choked out. "They were high school sweethearts, but they broke up when they went to college. Me and Jess started dating a couple years after that. But I guess not...now."

He put his arms on the table, leaned forward, and rested his head there, facing away from her. Jiya had no earthly idea what to say, especially when his shoulders began to shake.

"Goddammit, Lucy," she whispered, and rested a hand on Wyatt's dark head.

* * *

 _I've got a sense about you  
_ _under your hood, there's a man that I knew  
_ _his eyes are fire and his hands are true  
_ _where is he? where are you?_

A few hours later, Jiya ordered an Uber for Wyatt to take to what the internet told him was his place. It was a small, older house - one he'd never seen before - but it was close to base, so at least that much made sense.

He found a spare key above the eave of the front window, and the first thing he saw upon entering was a photo hung on the wall that he instantly recognized: his mom as a young woman, her hair feathered like Farrah Fawcett, holding his toddler self in her lap. They were both laughing, and Wyatt's chubby hand was reaching toward the photographer, whom he knew to be his grandfather, even though Sam Sherwin was nowhere in the picture.

The carpet was off-white and needed to be vacuumed. In fact, though the whole place was neat as a pin, everything was covered with a fine layer of dust. He tried the kitchen sink and found that the water had been turned off - something he always did when he knew he'd be gone for a long time.

He sat down heavily in a kitchen chair, swinging the brown paper bag filled with the old clothes he'd worn before coming back to this Rittenhouse-free world onto the table top. Not sure what else to do, he slowly drew them out and stared at them, willing himself to stay calm.

No - he couldn't do this. He had to get up and be busy, do something, anything to get his mind off of the track on which it was currently. Praying he had some running shoes in his closet, he stood quickly and shoved the clothes away.

An odd crinkling sound made him pause. After another moment's quick search of the trousers turned nothing up, he tried the inner pocket of the coat where he normally kept his gun.

"Shit," he breathed, pulling out a folded note on lined yellow paper. His fingers trembled as he sat back down and unfolded it, finding Lucy's thin, looping script inside.

 _Wyatt,_

 _I know how furious you are at me. And I know that nothing I write here will help. But I'll try anyway._

 _I'm sorry for the anesthesia. Flynn swore to me that it does no lasting damage, but it will make you feel bad for awhile after you wake up._

 _I'm sorry for deceiving you. But this really is the only option._

 _I did this for everyone, but mostly (selfishly) for you. Please respect my decision, Wyatt. Please build a life with Jess; give her a little boy and the life she deserves. The life and love and happiness you both deserve._

 _I'm sorry for everything._

 _\- Lucy_

* * *

 _what you've done cannot be undone  
_ _but you'll wake up to another sun_

After Lucy finished dismantling her birthright, she managed to stake a claim on 400 acres in Montana. Like thousands of other settlers, she made a bet with the US government that she could build a life for herself near what she knew would become a tiny town called Sweet Grass on the Canadian border, in an area she knew to be within the treaty lines of the local Native American contracts. It was the last place she thought anyone would look for her. If she was still alive and on her land in three years when the census man came through, the land would be hers.

It was lonely, backbreaking work. The land wasn't even in her name - she had to make up a fictional and very dead husband's will, leaving the land to her to prove up on. But she worked her fingers to the bone - through wildfires, pestilence, blizzard, drought, and disease. She helped to start a schoolhouse for the local children, and taught them herself during the winters. She bartered with her neighbors for their time in helping her to raise a barn, plow a garden, spin wool, and sew clothes. They were kind people, but she knew they whispered behind her back, telling each other what a shame it was that a "pretty, learned woman like that" should have to lead the life she did.

Lucy fended off countless suitors. She knew marriage was more about sharing the workload than love in this time, but she refused to pass on her cursed DNA to innocent children, and she knew there was absolutely no method of birth control to be had. She preferred to be alone with her ghosts, anyway.

She talked to them sometimes. On the nights when the howling wind kept her awake, she talked to Rufus and Jiya; to Denise and Flynn and sometimes, when she was especially sad, Wyatt. She talked to her father - her real dad, the one who had raised her. And she talked to Amy. A lot.

She often wondered if she was going insane, talking to people who didn't exist but that she could sometimes actually see. But she seemed sane enough during the other hours of the day, so she supposed as long as she was able to carry on, it didn't matter either way.

So the evening she came inside after a long day of walking her trap lines (Gerhardt Mitschke, the teenage son of nice Slavic immigrant neighbors and one of her students, had taught her how to set them up for game like jackrabbit during the long, bitter Montana winters) and saw one of her ghosts sitting on her straw-tick bed, she didn't spare him much of a second glance.

"Nice catch," said Wyatt, and she smiled without looking at him, setting the stiff carcasses on her table.

"Thanks," she said absently. "They're thin as rails, but still...protein."

She took off her hat and hung it on the nail next to the door, slipping her feet out of her boots, which she also left near the door so that the melting snow and mud didn't leak all over her floor.

When Wyatt's hands landed on her shoulders, however, she froze.

"Lucy," he whispered.

Slowly, wondering if she had finally cracked, Lucy turned around and stared up at him. He was thinner than usual, and wearing homespun riding clothes that were period-appropriate. There were purple shadows under his eyes, which were dark indigo in the weak light streaming in from her window, and they were filled with tears.

"It's me," he said.

Shaking, she reached up a hand and put it on his cheek. It was wet, rough with more beard than she'd ever seen him wear, and warm. He closed his eyes and sighed as she touched him.

"Wyatt?" she tried to say, but she couldn't make her mouth move.

And then he was kissing her, hands in her greasy winter hair, lips softly and insistently taking her own captive. It was pure and utter bliss, even though he tasted like Mrs. Mueller's goat stew and sour ale.

When he finally released her, her tears matched his own. She shook her head at him, dazed.

"What?" she said, still breathless. "Wyatt - what - how - how did you find me? How are you even here?"

He gave her a signature half-smile and seeing it felt like a physical blow.

"Please, Professor. You're not the only one who can study history around here."

She laughed a little hysterically, tremors rolling through her frame. He seemed to notice and guided her to sit down on the bed. She did so, watching him in sheer amazement as he drew the rough wooden chair she had made next to the bed and sat down beside her, holding both of her hands in his own.

"We had to acclimate to the new reality," he explained, a bit hoarsely. "We had to study our own lives and re-learn who we were supposed to be in the new timeline. The biggest difference in Rufus's life was that he didn't go to MIT. He went to the very prestigious Larsen University in Montana."

Lucy's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yeah," he agreed. "We didn't know what it was, either. But it's on level with MIT, Yale, Brown...you get it. So we dug around; looked through tons and tons of microfiche films. I don't think my eyes will ever be the same," he joked, trying to make her smile.

"We finally found a picture of Larsen University's mysterious founder - one Mrs. L. L. Logan," he continued, and pulled a battered, folded paper from his breast pocket. He unfolded it and gave it to her to examine.

All the air fled from her lungs.

It was a black-and-white print out of a formal portrait of herself in a high-necked gown. She was old, with gray hair, and she looked so remarkably like her mother that it felt like deja vu.

"It's the only university of its caliber to be established by a woman in the United States, and it was integrated and co-ed from the very beginning," he told her softly. "Started as a one-room schoolhouse somewhere in Montana, but no one thought to write down where the damn thing actually was. So Rufus and Jiya brought me back and I started in Helena. Bought a horse and searched, town by town, until I met the Muellers a few miles off. They told me about their girls starting school with Miss Lucinda this winter."

"Good thing you speak German," Lucy whispered, laughing through her tears. He nodded, smiling, and wiped them away with hands that were rough with wind and rope burns. His touch made her break; she couldn't help sliding down into his lap and putting her face in the crook of his neck, arms around him. He held her tightly.

"Now, I have a question, Miss Lucinda," he said in a low voice. "Did you use my name because you just wanted to, or because you'll agree to marry me?"

She straightened and looked down at him very seriously.

"Wyatt," she began, very hesitantly. "What happened to Jessica?"

He breathed out heavily.

"The biggest difference in my new life was that Jess dumped me and went back to her high school ex before we ever even got married," he said. "She's a mom of three now. Very happy."

"Oh," said Lucy in a small voice. "So I made you go back to..."

His jaw clenched and his grip tightened.

"Yeah, about that," he said fiercely. "Don't you ever - _EVER_ \- do that to me again. Or if you think you have to, just kill me instead. That would be easier for us both."

She swallowed and nodded, understanding that he said it to be lighthearted, but his face and tone were anything but.

"I won't," she said after a long moment.

"Promise me," he said, very seriously. He grabbed her right hand and threaded it in his own, holding it up for her like she was taking an oath.

"Repeat after me," said Wyatt, a small grin finally breaking out on his face. "I, Lucy Preston..."

Lucy smiled back, but shook her head.

"That's not my name."

He frowned.

"My name is Lucinda Larsen now," she informed him. "Because of my nonexistent dead husband."

He frowned even more deeply.

"But -"

"If you found me," she continued, "listed as L. L. Logan, and you're here, then I think the answer to your latter question is pretty clear."

He blinked.

"You didn't use my name get my attention," he said slowly. "You used it because -"

"Yes," she breathed against his lips. "Yes, I will marry you. God knows I could use a man around here."

* * *

 _what you've done cannot be undone  
_ _but you'll wake up to another sun_

Later in the night, Lucy woke when Wyatt slipped from her bed to stoke the fire. It wasn't yet dawn, but close, and her face was stiff with cold. The Mitschkes, Muellers, and Webers had all pitched in to help her build her tiny cabin and it was well-built, as insulated as cabins in this time could be, but the mercury thermometer at the door was still frozen solid, which meant it had to be at least 35 below outside.

"Are you sure, Wyatt?" she murmured. He looked back at her, clad only in wool socks and his long linen shirt. The firelight made his profile look like a cameo.

"Am I sure of what?" he asked as he slid back under the thick quilts with her.

"This isn't an easy time in which to live," she said. "I can't go back to our time - I don't - I _can't_ exist there. Probably. But you could."

He exhaled and gathered her against his chest.

"I can't go back either," he replied.

"Why?" she asked, puzzled.

"Well, first, because I'm not leaving you again. And second, because I told Rufus and Jiya to blow up the Lifeboat when they got back."

Shocked, she sat up.

"You _what_?"

He lifted one eyebrow at her.

"I told them to destroy it, so there was no chance of anyone ever abusing it again," he said, shrugging.

"But," she said helplessly. "But, what if you hadn't found me? What if I told you to - I dunno, get lost or something?"

He gave her the wide, smug grin of a satisfied man and pulled her down on top of him.

"Well, I did. And I was pretty confident you wouldn't, ma'am," he murmured into her neck, tracing her collarbone with his lips. She shivered, but relaxed against him.

"That's fair, I guess," she sighed, and he chuckled. They lay quietly together for a few minutes, watching the fire, when Lucy spoke again.

"I know why you did it, but I wish I could see Rufus and Jiya again."

Wyatt hummed and suddenly reached over the edge of the bed for his coat, which Lucy had mindlessly discarded there earlier. As he pulled it up into bed with them, she heard it jangle disconcertingly.

"What -" she began, but stopped when he pulled out several thick envelopes and handed them to her. They were heavy and she saw Rufus's handwriting, as well as Jiya's, on the outside of both. She opened the one from Rufus and a very long letter and several pictures fell out.

The first one she picked up was of Rufus in a suit and Jiya in a long ivory dress. They were smiling candidly at each other on a cliff at sunset in what she thought was Big Sur, and Jiya was holding a bouquet of white gardenias.

"She wanted me to tell you that she picked the flowers for you," said Wyatt. Lucy nodded.

"They're my favorite," she whispered, touching the picture with unsteady fingertips.

Wyatt dropped the coat and it landed on the floor with a much louder sound than it should have.

"What else do you have in there?" she asked, curious.

"Oh, uh...money, mostly. Ammo for my gun, which I hope you still have. Medicine and other stuff I thought we might need."

She gaped at him.

"Money?"

He shrugged. "I liquidated everything I had. Bought up as much old currency as I could find. I think all of it's period-appropriate, but I tried to pay an inn keeper last week with a coin that he looked at pretty funny, so maybe not."

Lucy went quiet and he looked down at her.

"What?"

"You really planned this out," she said.

He laid back on the pillow.

"For months," he said. "It's been nearly a year since you left, for me. We tried to get as close as we could, but I know it's been longer than that for you."

"How do you know that?"

He nodded over at her wall and she felt blood rush up her neck and into her cheeks.

"Tally marks," he said. "819 of them. I counted them while I was waiting on you to get back."

Lucy let out something like a laugh and a sob combined.

"That's how I knew I had the right place," he said softly, stroking her hair. "I knew it was you, Luce."

Lucy propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him with tremendous tenderness.

"I love you, too," she told him.


End file.
